


By Chance

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Music, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: This started as a fulfillment of a request but then got a little self-indulgent. There are a lot of song lyrics. I created a playlist featuring the versions of the songs that most closely resemble the arrangements I imagine in the fic (except for one song, "Tougher than the Rest" - the original Springsteen version is in the playlist because the one I wanted wasn't available. If you want a reference, though, you can find it on YouTube: Darren Hayes's cover of the song.) if you'd like tolisten:)





	By Chance

_I promise he’s not a weirdo_ , Rollins had said, and Benson kept playing the words over in her head. So far, the assessment felt accurate. He seemed normal. Nice. He held open both her car door and the door of the restaurant, and he pulled out her chair.

If they decided to go on a second date, she would tell him he needn’t bother with some of the niceties—but for a first date, she wasn’t going to fault him for his consideration. They were nice gestures, and she appreciated the thoughtfulness. All through dinner, he’d been polite, attentive, engaging. Funny. He was attractive, intelligent.

She was having a nice time, but there was something holding her back from really enjoying herself. She wanted to find something wrong with him, but she didn’t think he was the problem. It had been with reluctance that she’d allowed Rollins to arrange the blind date in the first place, and now she was wondering why she’d given in.

Nevertheless, she was determined to give him a chance. He’d taken her out for a nice dinner, and had even asked if it bothered her if he paid the bill. Rollins had vouched for him, everything about him seemed nice and normal, and it had been a long time since Benson had been out on a date—especially a first date.

If he invited her back to his place, she thought she would probably say yes—assuming it didn’t seem as though he were more emotionally invested than she was. She did find him attractive, and knew that it was mutual. He was a doctor, and she was sure they could both stand to blow off a little steam.

Her job, while always stressful and often disheartening, had been especially trying over the past few weeks. She and her squad had dealt with one horrible case after another. Barba had been doing an admirable job of piling up convictions but there always seemed to be another scumbag waiting to crawl from the woodwork. Often, it felt like a never-ending battle, and she couldn’t exactly go home and discuss the stresses of her day with her son.

She couldn’t discuss them with her date, either, but that was alright. He didn’t need to know the details; he understood stress and responsibility, and he thought he understood some of the horrors she’d seen; as a doctor, he’d often seen the aftermath of the violence with which she dealt. He didn’t really understand, of course; he couldn’t. But a partial understanding was better than none at all.

After dinner, when he asked if she wanted to go somewhere for drinks, she agreed without hesitation. More alcohol would help. They took a cab to a small bar of which she’d never heard, and she was glad. She’d been to so many of the city’s bars, investigating assaults, and she didn’t need those memories when she was already struggling to compartmentalize.

If she hadn’t agreed to go on this blind date, she’d probably already be half-drunk in Forlini’s with Barba. He’d asked her if she wanted to get a drink—which never actually meant _one_ drink—but she’d already let Rollins set up the blind date.

She heard the piano as soon as they walked into the bar, and realized that there was live music. She wouldn’t have guessed, based on how small and obscure the place seemed to be. The pianist was playing “Let It Be,” and Benson offered her date a smile as he helped her out of her jacket.

When the pianist started singing, though, she hesitated, frowning. There was something instantly familiar about the voice, something that immediately drew her attention and made her turn her head toward the piano tucked into the far corner of the bar. She couldn’t see the singer, though, and she stepped away from her date, barely remembering he was there, trying to get a clear view past the group of women huddled near one of the tables.

Benson had just been thinking about Barba as she walked into the bar, and when she first caught sight of the singing pianist, she was half-convinced her mind was playing tricks on her. It couldn’t actually _be_ him; rather, it must be someone who looked like him, and because she’d already been thinking his name—

But, no. It _was_ him. Rafael Barba, ADA, playing the piano and singing a Beatles song in the back of a small, dimly-lit, off-the-map bar. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar; he hadn’t changed his clothes after work, he’d simply removed half of the suit.

He didn’t look up while he sang into the microphone. His eyes seemed to be focused on the top of the piano, near his glass of scotch, and his thoughts seemed to be far away from the bar and its patrons.

“Olivia?” her date asked, and she turned, startled to see him holding out her chair.

“Sorry,” she said, giving her head a little shake. “Uh, do you mind if we sit over here?” she asked, pointing to a nearby table from which she’d have a better view of the piano.

“Sure,” he said, taking her jacket from the back of the chair and moving it to the other table. She seated herself and let him scoot her chair in, but her eyes had already returned to Barba. He had transitioned into another song. He wasn’t singing, but watching his own fingers play across the keys with a small frown knitting his brow.

She recognized the melody, but without vocals she couldn’t quite place it. She looked at her date. “What song is this?” she asked.

“‘Moon River,’” he said. She nodded, her gaze sliding back to Barba. He played beautifully, but she found herself longing to hear him continue singing. She’d never once heard him sing in all the years she’d known him, before tonight, and she was still having trouble believing it was really him. “I’ve seen him here a few times. He’s good. Plays a wide range of stuff, classical, jazz, show tunes, Springsteen. Last time I was here, he played ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee’ and ‘The Old Rugged Cross’—nobody here seemed to notice or mind that he was playing church hymns. He sort of blends into the background, but I think he likes it that way.”

Benson nodded, unable to come up with anything to say. She felt suddenly emotional. Part of her wanted to go over there and put her arm around her friend. Part of her wanted to sneak out of the bar so he wouldn’t know she’d seen him.

“I’m going to run to the restroom, if a waitress comes could you get me a whiskey?”

Benson nodded, barely glancing at her date.

Barba finished ‘Moon River’ and reached for his drink. She thought he might glance around the room, but he didn’t. He swallowed half of his scotch, returned the glass to the top of the piano, and put his fingers over the keys. She watched him, fascinated. He hesitated. She saw him close his eyes and take a deep breath, and then he started playing.

When he started singing, her heart stumbled in her chest.

“ _There’s a grief that can’t be spoken…There’s a pain goes on and on…Empty chairs at empty tables…now my friends are dead and gone…_ ”

She vaguely recognized the song as being from _Les Miserables,_ although that was a surprise in itself; she knew almost nothing about musical theater, a fact that had exasperated Barba almost as frequently as her lack of recognition of his obscure literature quotes.

The source of the song didn’t matter, though. What mattered was the rawness in Barba’s voice. In years of working together, in years of friendship, she’d seen his eyes shimmering with tears. She’d heard his voice crack with emotion. She’d seen his face flushed with anger. She’d seen him close to losing control.

_You and I are_ done _talking_ , she thought, wincing at the painful memory.

She’d seen him close to losing control, yes, but she’d never seen his control actually break. And she had never heard him like this.

_“Here they talked of revolution. Here it was, they lit the flame. Here they sang about tomorrow, and tomorrow never came.”_

As he continued singing, she barely noticed the lyrics; the words were unimportant. Here, in a room surrounded by twenty or so strangers, Barba had sequestered himself in a corner with a piano—and laid his heart bare. He seemed unaware of the people listening to him, and yet he’d flayed himself open before them, allowing them to see a side of him that Benson had only been shown glimpses of in six years.

She wasn’t hurt or offended by that. She’d never fully let her guard down, either. Their walls were part of who they were. They shared that in common and recognized their similarities.

The pain she was feeling wasn’t because she was upset that he’d never let her see this much of his emotion; her heartache was _for_ him. Watching him, hearing the pain in his voice—a pain not even directly related to the lyrics—made her want nothing more than to be able to comfort him.

_“Oh, my friends, my friends, forgive me, that I live and you are gone. There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain goes on and on. Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor. Empty chairs at empty tables, where my friends will meet no more. My friends, my friends, don’t ask me, what your sacrifice was for—”_

Benson thought of all the faces she’d seen twisted in pain, all the families she’d seen torn apart. She thought of the grief and trauma that she and Barba had witnessed in just the past couple of weeks. She knew exactly what he was feeling, and her own heart was breaking in response to the crack in his voice.

She didn’t realize she was crying until her date appeared beside her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She looked up, startled, blinking his face into focus. “Oh. Yeah.” She shook her head and swiped at her tears, suddenly self-conscious. “Just…the song, I guess.”

He nodded, but he looked unconvinced. He was regarding her carefully, and she resisted the urge to fidget. “I’m going to go get drinks,” he said, since no one had come to take an order.

“Okay,” she said, her gaze sliding to Barba as the last note of the song ended.

Barba was looking at her, and she felt a jolt of awareness as their eyes met. He seemed stunned to see her, and for a moment, neither of them moved or breathed.

“Do you want wine?”

“What? Oh.” No, she definitely needed something stronger. “I’ll take a scotch,” she said, on impulse, even though she wasn’t a fan of the stuff. Barba looked from her to her date. She saw him swallow. He reached for his glass and downed the rest of his drink without looking at her, returning it to the piano with a small clunk. “Can you do me a favor and have one sent to—the piano player, too? Neat.”

“Sure,” her date answered, still studying her with a strange look on his face.

She met his eyes and forced a smile. “Thanks,” she said. As soon as he’d turned away, however, her eyes were back on Barba.

Barba wasn’t looking at her, but she could see that he’d been affected by her presence. He was frowning at the keys. His shoulders were hunched, and he seemed unsure of what to play as his fingers hovered over the ivory. She felt guilty for having thrown him off his game. If this was the place that he came to feel safe and comfortable, to let off steam, then she didn’t want to be responsible for ruining that for him. She thought about asking her date if they could leave—either find another bar, or call it an evening.

_“The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you,”_ Barba started, in a low voice, and she couldn’t breathe. _“It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you. And I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you. No, I don’t wanna fall in love. No, I don’t wanna fall in love, with you…What a wicked game you played, to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you. What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you and I wanna fall in love. No, I wanna fall in love with you.”_

He didn’t look at her once during the song, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him—from his defensive posture, to the scowl on his face, to the way his fingers played across the keys.

As he was finishing the song, a waitress walked up and set a fresh glass of scotch on the piano, taking his empty glass. She murmured something to him, gesturing behind herself, and Barba’s gaze followed the gesture toward Benson’s date—who was setting her scotch on their table. Her date tipped his whiskey in a silent salute, and Barba nodded once in acknowledgement, still frowning, before turning his attention back to the piano.

_“It’s not simple to say, but most days I don’t recognize me. These shoes and this apron, that place and its patrons, have taken more than I gave them. It’s not easy to know I’m not anything like I used to be, although it’s true I was never attention’s sweet center—”_

“Interesting choice,” Benson’s date said, and she looked at him. He was sitting beside her; she hadn’t noticed him sitting down. Catching her eyes, he smiled and, gesturing toward Barba with his whiskey glass, said, “It’s from the musical, _Waitress_? I’ve heard some male singers do it on YouTube.” He hesitated. “I’m guessing you don’t spend much time on YouTube, though?”

With a small laugh, she shook her head. “No,” she agreed. “And I don’t know much about musical theater.”

_“She’s imperfect, but she tries. She is good, but she lies. She is hard on herself, she is broken and won’t ask for help. She is messy but she’s kind. She is lonely most of the time. She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie. She is gone but she used to be mine.”_

She might not know the play, or the song, but she knew what Barba was singing about. He was singing about her, but not just her. He was singing about himself, but not just himself. He was singing about both of them. _These shoes and this apron, that place and its patrons, have taken more than I gave them_. He could be singing about suits and ties, courtrooms and crime scenes, suspects and victims—these were the things that had, over the years, taken bits and pieces from their hearts; these were the things that had led them to add bricks and mortar to their emotional walls.

_“Who’ll be reckless, just enough, who’ll get hurt but who learns how to toughen up when she’s bruised and gets used by a man who can’t love…and then she’ll get stuck and be scared of the life that’s inside her—growing stronger each day, ‘til it finally reminds her to fight just a little, to bring back the fire in her eyes that’s been gone…but used to be mine.”_

“She—the waitress—is trying to find the courage to leave her husband, and looking back on the dreams—Are you sure you’re alright?”

She blinked back her tears and shook her head.

“We can leave, if you want. I mean…if you’re not—”

“No, it’s good. I’m good,” she said. “I don’t really know the music, but…it’s good,” she repeated, unable to articulate any better than that. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell her date that she knew Barba. Maybe she just wanted to protect Barba’s anonymity. Maybe she didn’t want to admit to her own emotional turmoil. Either way, her friendship with Barba felt private, personal—something to be guarded, and she didn’t bother trying to analyze the feeling.

“Okay,” he answered, looking and sounding unsure. She knew she was being unfair to him, and she took a drink of scotch with a grimace. “Do you not like scotch?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Do you go to the theater a lot?”

“My grandmother loved only two things as much as her family—Audrey Hepburn, and Broadway. The song he played a bit ago, ‘Moon River,’ I probably heard a thousand times growing up. _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ was almost always playing. Now _this_ song, is more obscure,” he said, pointing a finger in Barba’s direction. This guy, Ramin Karimloo, he starred in The Phantom of the Opera, he wrote this song for this, like, country music album he did—He sang ‘Edelweiss’ as a country—You know, ‘Edelweiss,’ from _The Sound of Music_?”

She nodded, but she was only half paying attention. He knew that, of course, even though she was studiously keeping her eyes away from Barba and the piano.

_“There are times when I fall through. I can’ t feel the love in you. I know that I’m pushing you away from the man you knew. It’s not always black or white, the gray obscures and blocks the light. So why not paint me red tonight? But I’ve got to feel what’s right. And there you are, you’re losing you in me. And there you are, I’m losing you from me. And there you are, we’re losing you and me.”_

“Seems like someone had his heart broken.”

Benson opened her mouth but closed it again without speaking. If he wanted to think that Barba was singing about a break-up, or something similarly trivial in the broad scheme of things, she would let him believe that. She knew better, though. She knew what Barba had seen and heard.

“Whenever I’ve seen him here he seems pretty serious, but he’s more…melancholic than usual.”

_The past few weeks have been harder than usual_ , she thought, remembering the face of the girl whose murderer Barba was currently prosecuting. Benson had had twenty years of seeing similar images. Barba was newer to the horrors, but they were not something a person could ever get used to.

_“No, this is not a simple choice. There’s nothing left now to rejoice. Johnny Cash and Jimmy Joyce, speak for me now, use my voice. And there you are—you’re losing you in me. And there you are, I’m losing you from me. And there you are, are we losing you and me?”_

She looked at him, she couldn’t help it. Their eyes met. They both reached for their glasses of scotch at the same time, and she drank half of hers quickly, needing the emotional fortitude.

She heard Barba clear his throat near the microphone.

_“Well it’s Saturday night. You’re all dressed up in blue. I’ve been watching you awhile, maybe you’ve been watching me, too. So somebody ran out, left somebody’s heart in a mess. Well, if you’re looking for love, honey, I’m tougher than the rest. Some girls want a handsome man, or some good looking Joe. Some folks like a sweet talking Romeo. Around here, baby, I’ve learned you get what you can get. If you’re rough and ready for love, honey, I’m tougher than the rest. The road is dark, and it’s a thin, thin line. But I want you to know, I’d walk it for you any time.”_ He looked over at her—the first time they’d made eye contact while he was singing—and her heart stumbled in her chest. _“Maybe your other boyfriends couldn’t pass the test. But if you’re rough and ready for love, honey, I’m tougher than the rest.”_

“This is a Bruce Springsteen song, although I’ve never heard it done like this. Must be somebody’s cover version. I think Shawn Colvin did one…”

_“Well, it ain’t no secret, I’ve been around a time or two. Hell, I don’t know, babe, maybe you’ve been around, too. There’s another dance, baby. All you’ve gotta do is say yes. If you’re rough and ready for love, honey, I’m tougher than the rest.”_

She swallowed the last of her scotch.

“Do you want another?”

She shook her head. She’d lost her desire to get drunk. “Thanks, I’m…going to run to the bathroom and…maybe we should go?”

He nodded. His expression was solemn, and she knew that she’d ruined whatever connection they might have forged during dinner. It hadn’t been intentional. She’d been determined to give him the attention he deserved, but she’d failed. Ever since walking into the bar, she’d been able to focus on nothing but the man at the piano, the words he was singing, and the emotion in his voice.

She glanced at Barba, who was watching her rise from the table.

He started a Billy Joel song that she recognized, and her stomach fluttered. She looked away, unable to do anything else.

_“A bottle of white. A bottle of red. Perhaps a bottle of rosè instead. Get a table near the street, in our old familiar place. You and I, face to face. A bottle of red, a bottle of white. It all depends upon your appetite. I’ll meet you any time you want, in our Italian restaurant.”_ She was almost to the bathroom when he finished the verse, but instead of continuing the song, he transitioned into a different Billy Joel song, and she hesitated outside the door. _“I never ask you where you go after I leave you in the morning. We go our different ways, to separate situations. It’s not that easy, anymore. Today I do what must be done. I give my time to total strangers. But now it feels as though the day goes on forever, more than it ever did before. Until the night, until the night, I just might make it. Until the night, until the night, when I see you again.”_

She ducked into the bathroom, thankful no one was inside.

_“Now you’re afraid that we have changed, and I’m afraid we’re getting older. So many broken hearts, so many lonely faces. So many lovers come and gone. I’ll have my fears like every man. You’ll have your tears like every woman. Today we’ll be unsure, is this what we believe in? And wonder, how can we go on? Until the night…”_

She stood at the sink, looking at herself in the mirror. Even through the door, his voice, and his words, surrounded her. She was crying. She felt like something inside of her had been broken open. It hurt, but there was something sweet about the pain.

She went into one of the two stalls and peed, and she could still hear Barba’s voice.

_“When the sun goes down and the day is over, when the last of the light has gone. As they pour into the street I will be getting closer, as the cars turn their headlights on. As they’re closing it down I’m gonna open it up and while they’re going to sleep, we’ll just be starting to talk. I’m just beginning to feel, I’m just beginning to give, I’m just beginning to heal, I’m just beginning to live—”_

Sitting on the toilet in the bathroom stall of a bar, Benson put her hands over her face and choked back a sob. She couldn’t have put into words what she was feeling. She knew she had to get control of herself and her emotions, though. She had a date, sitting out at a table patiently waiting for her. She swiped at her eyes, taking a deep breath. She swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head.

She left the stall and washed her hands, again looking at herself in the mirror. It was obvious that she’d been crying, but there was nothing she could do about it. Barba was finishing “Until the Night,” but instead of ending, he transitioned back into “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” and she drew another shaky breath as she stepped out of the bathroom. She had herself under control. She looked at Barba and caught his gaze.

_“A bottle of red, a bottle of white. Whatever kind of mood you’re in tonight, I’ll meet you any time you want in our Italian restaurant.”_

She would’ve been in Forlini’s with him, drinking, if she hadn’t agreed to this date. Barba wouldn’t be singing depressing songs in a bar, and she wouldn’t be feeling guilty about neglecting a perfectly nice friend of Rollins’s.

Barba’s song was not an indictment, though. It was an offer, and one that he’d never quite been able to put into words of his own. He’d asked her out for drinks. He’d asked her to dinner. The invitations had always been reserved, though. He’d been careful to never suggest anything other than friendship, at least out loud.

Her date didn’t bother asking—again—if she was alright. He got to his feet as she approached, and held up her jacket. She turned, letting him help her into it, and she met Barba’s eyes again. She looked away quickly. This was not the time or place for what they needed to say to each other.

Barba started “In My Life,” and she supposed it was fitting that The Beatles would play her both into and out of the bar. Her eyes were burning, but she would shed no more tears in this place. She didn’t look back toward the piano as she left with her date, but she thought she could feel Barba’s eyes following her out.

 

*       *       *

 

It was after 11, which meant that Forlini’s was closed. In fact, it was almost midnight. She’d gotten home around 10:30, but she never would’ve made it to the restaurant before closing, so she hadn’t even tried. He wouldn’t expect her there, anyway, not tonight. That wasn’t what he’d been saying.

He didn’t expect her to be sitting on the floor beside the door to his apartment, either. She saw the surprise on his face when he stopped in the hallway. After the surprise, she watched several emotions play across his features. Happiness, grief, fear, and relief; they were all there. She felt them all, as well.

He walked toward her, slowly. She’d changed out of her dress and high heels, and into slacks and a t-shirt and sneakers, and she’d scrubbed the makeup from her face; she’d done so quietly, to avoid waking Noah, after asking Lucy to stay the night.

She’d taken a cab to his apartment, because she’d had a few drinks before that final scotch. She was feeling very clear-headed, though, as she looked up at him.

Barba stopped by her feet and reached down a hand.

She put her palm against his, and as his fingers wrapped around her hand, she felt the warmth of his touch spreading up her wrist. He pulled her to her feet and they stood looking at each other. He chewed his lower lip for a moment, and she could see all of his emotions shining in his eyes; all of the things he’d never been able to say.

“It was a blind date,” she said.

He gave his head a little shake. He didn’t care.

She didn’t bother to add that it had been by complete chance that they’d ended up in the same bar as him. Her surprise had been as apparent as his.

“I would’ve gone for drinks with you,” she said, because she felt like she needed to make sure he knew that. “But…I wouldn’t be _here_ , would I?” That needed to be said, as well.

“I’m sorry I made you cry,” he said, softly. He drew a breath through his nose, and let it out, slowly. “But, I’m…” He swallowed, and she saw his expression tighten. He searched her eyes, and she knew what he wanted to say. She knew, but she waited. “I’m glad you came,” he said.

She stepped forward and raised her hands to his jaw. “Me, too,” she said. She pressed her lips to his. Her heart was pounding in her chest. He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose, but his eyes opened when she pulled back to look at him. “Do you want to let me in?” she asked, and they both knew she wasn’t just talking about his apartment.

“Yes,” he breathed, barely audible. He hesitated, holding her gaze. “Do you…want to come in?”

She smiled. “Yes,” she said. When he fished his keys out of his pocket, his hands were trembling. She touched his wrist, and he swallowed, looking at her. He let her pull the keys from his fingers, and she unlocked the door and pushed it open. He followed her into his apartment and closed the door while she set his keys on the table.

She turned and pushed him gently against the door, and as she kissed him, his hands went to her arms; his grip was tight, and she wasn’t surprised when he abruptly turned her, pinning her against the door. His hands were heavy as they settled at her waist, and his mouth was rough on hers. His knee nudged her thighs apart as he leaned into her, pressing her against the door.

She could feel his desperation; his kiss was frantic, and hard, and she could feel his pulse thudding beneath the hand she’d settled against the side of his neck. She could taste the scotch on his tongue, and she could feel the emotions that were trying to tear him apart.

She knew what it was like to feel as though she were coming unmoored, to feel like she was losing a grip on herself. She knew how it felt to give too much of herself to the world. She knew the feeling of being lonely in a crowded room, surrounded by people who couldn’t possibly understand the thoughts in her head or the feelings in her heart. She knew how it felt to desperately need an anchor, something, anything to hold onto.

She didn’t care that his kiss was rough, or that his hands were fumbling their way beneath her shirt. She didn’t care that his knee was lodged between her thighs or that his growing arousal was pressed against her leg. She didn’t care that he was half-drunk. She knew what he was feeling, and she would be his anchor.

She unbuttoned his pants and pulled his shirt from his waistband, and he made a sound in his throat; his hand was inside her shirt, hot and hard as it found her breast, and she fumbled for the button of her own slacks. He had her pinned against the door so that she could barely move, but she somehow managed to push her pants down and kick them, and her shoes, off.

She slid her hands into his boxers, cupping his backside and pulling him closer, and he broke away from her mouth, panting.

“Liv,” he said.

“I’m here,” she answered. She reached up and slipped her fingers into his hair, tugging his mouth back to hers. She draped her other arm over his shoulder, holding onto him as he grabbed the back of her thigh and lifted her leg. She bent her knee around his hip, shifting her other foot on the floor.

He entered her quickly, roughly—desperately, and she held onto him. He pulled his mouth from hers, dropping his forehead to her shoulder as he thrust into her, breathing raggedly. She kept her hand in his hair, her fingers against his scalp. His movements were frantic. She could feel the pressure building inside of her but knew she wouldn’t reach the edge in time. And, that was alright. She held onto him as she felt the tremors passing through his body, as his hips slowed, as she felt him come inside her. She wanted to hold him forever.

His breaths were irregular against her shoulder. He shifted his hips, withdrawing, and she felt a pang of regret as she lowered her foot to the floor. He lifted his head and drew back, reaching for her hand. He pulled her toward the bedroom, and she followed him on unsteady legs.

She didn’t resist when he pushed her, gently, onto the bed. He slanted his mouth over hers, and she felt his palm on her inner thigh as he urged her legs further apart. A moment later, his thumb found its target and she arched against his hand. He slipped one finger, and then a second, inside her, and she groaned into his mouth, closing her eyes.

He circled her clit with his thumb as he moved his fingers, and she found herself thinking of his hands on the piano keys, moving effortlessly across the ivory. She came quickly, tightening around his hand, trying to draw his fingers deeper, and he finally pulled his mouth from hers so they could both breathe.

He sank against her, breathing heavily, his cheek on her chest, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding his head against her heart.

“Liv,” he said, again.

She tightened her arms. “I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I might lose myself,” he murmured against her shirt.

“I know,” she said, running her fingers through his hair.

“Sometimes I…don’t know if I can…keep doing it,” he said.

Her stomach clenched. “You’re not alone,” she said. She rubbed his back, hesitating. The thought of losing him was terrifying, but she loved him too much to do anything other than support him—whatever his decision. “No matter what, you’ll never be alone,” she said. “If you need to…leave, if you—”

“I’ll never leave,” he said, his grip on her tightening.

She swallowed around the lump of emotion in her throat, trying to tamp down her relief. “You have to do what’s best for you,” she told him, quietly.

“You’re what’s best for me,” he muttered. “You’ve changed me, Liv, the way I see the world. You made me care.”

“You always cared,” she answered, softly, stroking his back. “You were the guy who took the cases no one else would take, who fought for the victims no one else believed or cared about. You might’ve had everyone else fooled with the swagger and smirk, Barba, but I saw you right away. You’re the same person you’ve always been. But this job, it takes a toll. Believe me, I know. I’ve seen it destroy people, chew them up and spit them out. But it wasn’t because they admitted they cared. It was because they tried to pretend, tried to convince themselves that they didn’t. You, you’re braver than that. You’re fearless.”

“I’m terrified,” he countered. “Terrified of pushing you away. You, _you’re_ fearless.”

“I’m afraid of a lot of things, Rafael, but the thing I’m most afraid of is that you don’t know how much I love you—because I never told you. Because you asked me to get a drink, and I turned you down, and it’s my fault you were alone—”

He lifted his head and shifted upward, pressing his lips against hers. His eyes were closed, but after a moment, he drew back and looked down at her. “We’ve both been on our own for…most of our lives,” he said. “I always thought that’s what I wanted. The job was all I cared about, all I needed. But I was wrong. What I needed was you. Someone who would tell me when I was being an ass or remind me what I was fighting for. And maybe…maybe you needed me, too. Someone who would tell you when you were wrong,” he said, a small smile touching his lips when she raised her eyebrows. “We might not always agree but we’re always on the same side,” he added, his voice soft as he searched her face.

“Always,” she agreed.

He bent his head and kissed her, his lips gentle against hers. “Every time I think I can’t do it anymore, I look at you,” he murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear as he studied her face. “With you on my side, I can do anything.”

“Next time you go back to that bar, if you ask me, I’ll go with you. I’ll sit in the back and not even look at you, if you want. All you have to do is let me be there for you. You don’t have to tell me what you’re feeling. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me be there. I won’t let you down again, I swear.”

“Hey,” he said. “You’ve never let me down, ever. I love you, Liv. I can’t promise I’ll say it a lot but I can promise I’ll always feel it.” He let out a breath and bent his head so his lips were near her ear. “Can you stay the night?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Liv,” he murmured into her hair.

“Yes?”

His breath was hot at her ear. “I’ll never finish before you again, I give you my word.”

She felt a shiver pass through her. “I don’t care about that,” she said.

“I care,” he said, lifting his head to meet her eyes in the darkness. “It won’t happen again. But…thank you. I do love you, Liv. More than you can know.”

She smiled. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she answered, softly, before pulling his mouth down for a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

“Let It Be” and “In My Life,” written by John Lennon/Paul McCartney

“Moon River,” written by Henry Mancini

“Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,” written by Claud-Michel Schonberg

“Wicked Game,” written by Chris Isaak

“She Used to Be Mine,” written by Sara Bareilles

“Losing,” written by Ramin Karimloo

“Tougher than the Rest,” written by Bruce Springsteen

“Until the Night” and “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” written by Billy Joel


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